985 


JC-MWUF 


r 


LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


L 


Gl  FT    OF 


Class 


\ 


WINDLE 


THE 

RACE    TRACK 

SWINDLE 

A    SATIRE 


BY 

THOMAS  H. 

Who  Sincerely  Hopes  This  Publication  Will  be  Instrumental  In  Saving 
Some  of  His  Fellow  Men  From  the  Fatal  Whirl  of  the  Track. 


THE    JAMES   H.    BARRY   CO. 
a  14   IrfEAVIDNWORTH   ST.,  SAN   FHANOISCO 


#? 


COPYRIGHT  19O6,  BY  THOMAS  H.  KENNEDY 


PREFACE 


Horse-racing  was  once  a  noble  sport,  conducted  by  hon- 
orable gentlemen,  to  whom  the  honor  of  winning  was  of 
more  importance  than  the  stake.  Today  it  has  degenerated 
into  a  despicable  game.  Every  race-track  is  a  gambling  hell, 
run  apparently  in  the  interest  of  scheming  rings,  whose  only 
object  seems  to  be  the  skinning  of  the  unfortunate  victims 
who  play. 

The  vile  work  at  the  starting  gate,  the  rank  decisions  of 
the  judges,  the  "doping"  of  horses,  the  crookedness  of  jock- 
eys, the  treachery  of  owners  and  the  rascality  of  books,  have 
caused  many  disagreeable  scandals,  which  have,  in  a  measure, 
opened  the  eyes  of  the  public,  and  yet,  lured  by  the  fascina- 
tion of  the  game,  they  continue  to  go  in  trainloads  and 
gamble  while  they  have  a  dollar  left. 

The  game  is  so  corrupt  that  it  has  been  suppressed  in  sev- 
eral states,  and  in  others  the  battle  against  it  is  still  going 
on.  It  has  blighted  lives,  ruined  homes,  wrecked  fortunes, 
and  caused  rivers  of  tears  to  flow.  The  insane  asylums,  alms- 
houses  and  jails  are  filled  with  its  victims,  and  considering 
everything,  THE  RACETRACK  SWINDLE  is  a  mighty  evil  which 
every  law-abiding  citizen  should  endeavor  to  suppress. 

166405 


THE  RACE  TRACK  SWINDLE 

Come,  festive  sports,  whoVe  played  the  ponies  long, 

And  hear  the  muse  that  sings  a  doleful  song. 

Ye  midnight  students  of  the  doubtful  "dope," 

Who  figure  records,  while  ye  fondly  hope ; 

Unwise  mechanics  who  the  workshops  leave 

To  buck  the  bookies  laughing  in  their  sleeves; 

Deluded  followers  of  the  tipsters,  too, 

Or  touts  that  worry  with  their  tales  untrue. 

Come,  weary  women,  who  may  sadly  need 

The  savings  squandered  on  each  fancied  steed ; 

Ye  young  beginner  nibbling  at  the  bait, 

Or  older  player  with  a  hoary  pate; 

Whatever  your  station,  you  may  wiser  be 

To  heed  the  wisdom  which  is  sung  for  thee. 

No  sorehead  malice  doth  my  words  impel, 

Mine  is  the  wish  alone,  the  truth  to  tell ; 

To  point  the  folly,  and  without  offense 

Lead  thoughtless  victims  to  the  path  of  sense ; 

In  its  true  light,  before  the  public  bring 

The  hideous  evil  called  "The  Sport  of  Kings." 


THE   RACE   TRACK    SWINDLE. 

There  was  a  time,  not  many  years  ago, 

When  honest  starters  let  the  horses  go, 

And  honest  owners  raced  each  gallant  steed, 

Moved  by  no  spirit  of  unholy  greed. 

To  see  the  steed  they  owned  beneath  the  wire 

First  at  the  finish  was  their  one  desire, 

Proud  of  the  jockey  of  superior  skill 

Who  loved  hi»  mount  and  rode  it  with  a  will. 

Then  at  the  County  Fair,  just  once  a  year, 

For  a  short  time  the  racers  would  appear, 

And  the  good  people  from  the  country  side 

Came  to  the  sport  they  loved  from  far  and  wide. 

Sweet  Mary  Jones  put  on  her  Sunday  togs 

And  Bill  brushed  up  when  he  had  fed  the  hogs; 

While  good  old  Mamma  donned  her  Cashmere  shawl, 

Jake  hitched  the  horses  to  the  carry-all. 

Old  farmer  Jones  his  ancient  whiskers  trimmed 

And  wiped  his  spectacles  by  hay-dust  dimmed, 

Then  down  the  county  road  on  pleasure  bent, 

With  all  the  neighbors  to  the  races  went. 

A  joyous  crowd  of  people  filled  the  stand 

Pleased  with  the  music  of  the  rustic  band. 

When  from  the  paddock  came  each  noble  nag, 

Ready  to  jump  when  dropped  the  crimson  flag, 


THE   RACE    TRACK    SWINDLE. 

They  saw  no  crooked  starter's  juggling  play 
To  get  some  favored  steed  the  first  away; 
Nor  thought  of  riders  paid  by  thieving  crooks 
To  "pull"  a  winning  horse  to  save  the  books. 
When  round  the  track  the  nimble  coursers  sped, 
Right  from  the  heart,  they  cheered  the  one  that  led, 
And  when  the  struggling  field  came  flying  in 
Were  pleased,  b'gosh,  to  see  the  best  "hoss"  win. 

But  now,  alas,  how  changed  are  things,  to-day 
Each  racing  magnate  can  with  pride  survey 
His  wide  domain  of  track  and  grassy  lawn 
Which  willing  gardeners  sprinkle  night  and  morn ; 
Two  miles  of  stables  with  three  thousand  steeds, 
And  scores  of  hostlers  tending  to  their  needs; 
The  trainers  with  their  salaries,  not  the  least, 
And  numerous  boys  to  exercise  each  beast; 
Cooks,  farriers,  yes,  and  veterinarians,  too, 
With  clerks  and  trackmen,  swell  the  costly  crew ; 
The  so-called  starter,  kept  at  great  expense, 
And  judges  with  their  salaries  immense; 
The  horde  of  specials  whom  the  club  must  pay 
To  keep  the  beats  and  outside  thieves  at  bay  ; 
The  club-house  furnished  in  luxurious  style, 
The  band  that  tries  with  music  to  beguile, 


OF  THE 

UN/VERSJTV 


THE   RACE   TRACK   SWINDLE. 

The  books  that  pay  two  hundred  bucks  apiece, 
Expense  each  day,  the  easy-ones  to  fleece; 
Count  up  the  cost,  and  would  it  be  amiss 
To  ask  in  Reason's  name,  who  pays  for  this? 

Bound  for  the  track,  behold  the  crowded  trains 
That  bring  their  loads  of  fortune-seeking  swains. 
Led  on  by  folly,  hear  the  turnslile's  click 
As  lines  pay  tribute  and  are  surging  thick. 
Stand  near  the  gate,  observe  them  well  and  trace 
The  weary  aspect  of  each  passing  face. 
There,  careless  youth  and  thoughtful  age  are  seen 
With  painted  dames  and  consorts  coarse  and  mean; 
There,  tradesmen's  wives  the  family  savings  bring 
Unknown  to  husbands,  who  their  virtues  sing; 
Embezzling  clerks  there  take  the  downward  path 
That  brings  a  mother's  grief  and  father's  wrath, 
And  many  a  jailbird  who  has  served  his  time, 
Still  unrepentant,  haunts  this  school  of  crime. 
All  see  their  fortunes  dwindle  day  by  day, 
Yet  lack  the  stamina  to  keep  away. 
Among  the  mighty  throng  there's  scarcely  one 
Who  loves  a  race,  and  comes  to  see  it  run. 


8 


THE   RACE   TRACK    SWINDLE. 

Proceed,  ye  victims,  to  the  betting  ring, 
Quite  welcome  are  ye  with  the  wealth  ye  bring. 
The  books  are  waiting,  yes,  by  all  the  gods! 
The  boards  are  covered  with  the  "opening  odds." 
See,  there 's  the  favorite  marked  at  four  to  five, 
A  generous  price,  as  sure  as  you're  alive ; 
Just  sixteen  horses  running  in  the  race — 
The  second  choice  is  six  to  five  "to  place." 
Some  hold  their  money  and  with  hasty  glance 
Scan  every  board  to  see  the  price  advance; 
But  no,  just  four  to  five  is  all  they  see, 
And  look !  the  pikers*  book  lays  only  three. 
Then  comes  the  rush,  the  markers'  pencils  ply 
While  dupes  call  bets  and  hold  the  money  high, 
Around  each  stand  the  crushing  players  storm, 
'Tis  "frenzied  finance"  in  its  maddest  form. 
The  busy  pool-boys,  women's  wagers  bring 
While  many  a  tout  goes  whispering  round  the  ring. 
All  crowd  and  jostle  in  the  reeking  smoke 
With  serious  words,  perchance,  or  flippant  joke. 
For  twenty  minutes  pandemonium  reigns 
While  nervous  gamblers  bet  with  troubled  brains; 
When,  hark !  the  bugle  tells  the  surging  host 
The  horses  now  are  going  to  the  post. 

9 


THE   RACE   TRACK    SWINDLE. 

Then  the  sagacious  players  to  a  man 
Rush  from  the  ring  their  fancied  ones  to  scan. 
Before  the  judge  they  trot  in  single  file, 
Then  to  the  tape,  the  race  is  for  a  mile. 
The  mis-named  starter,  standing  on  the  rail, 
Surveys  each  steed  with  flowing  mane  and  tail, 
Gives  orders  quick  while  skittish  horses  rear 
And  fill  the  timid  stable-boys  with  fear. 

If  high-strung  steeds  go  shuffling  'cross  the  track 

The  assistant  starters  quickly  lash  them  back, 

Seize  this  one's  bridle,  turn  him  deftly  round, 

Or  drag  another  roughly  o'er  the  ground. 

The  jockeys,  too,  in  silken  colors  dressed, 

To  line  them  up,  appear  to  do  their  best. 

Three  times  they're  ready,  yet  with  trembling  heart 

The  talent  wonders  why  they  do  not  start. 

Again  the  shuffle,  and  again  the  whip 

Laid  on  the  prancing  steeds  that  fret  and  skip, 

And  now  the  public  choice  which  long  had  been 

A  patient  beast,  is  somewhat  restive  seen. 

Low  speaks  the  starter,  yet  'tis  scarcely  said 

Ere  "Holdfast  Jimmy"  has  him  by  the  head, 

Tugs  at  the  bridle,  gives  his  neck  a  yank 

10 


THE   RACE   TRACK   SWINDLE. 

And  lands  a  vicious  lash  upon  his  flank, 
Swings  him  around,  the  jugglery  is  done, 
The  field  is  off,  the  favorite  didn't  run, 
"Left  at  the  post,"  the  swindled  people  yell 
And  curse  the  starters  to  the  depths  of  hell. 
Some  entry  owner  may  with  scowling  eye 
Observe  the  juggling,  but  must  pass  it  by; 
For  well  he  fears  the  grumbling  turfman's  fate 
Who  dares  to  murmur  at  the  doubtful  gate; 
In  future  starts,  his  nags  the  fields  might  chase 
And  long  perhaps  before  they'd  win  a  race. 


Tell  me,  ye  followers  of  the  thieving  game 
That  long  has  been  our  nation's  blot  of  shame, 
Have  ye  not  heard  disgusted  players  hiss 
And  hoot  the  starters  for  such  work  as  this? 
Though  loud  and  long  the  howl  of  rage  they  raise, 
It  ne'er  was  known  the  callous  gang  to  daze, 
And,  stranger  still,  the  judges  from  the  stand 
Were  never  known  to  give  a  reprimand; 
They  did  not  see  it,  though  he  badly  sinned ; 
Protect  the  books,  the  public  must  be  skinned. 


II 


THE   RACE   TRACK    SWINDLE. 

Though  oft  the  furious  players  question  why 
Such  shocking  work  escapes  the  judges'  eye, 
The  starting  fake  is  but  a  single  means 
To  draw  the  money  from  the  gambler's  jeans. 
Just  watch,  when  bangtails  fly  around  the  course, 
How  slick  the  jockey  pulls  a  winning  horse, 
With  choking  bridle  takes  a  "live  one"  back 
Or  deftly  rides  it  zigzag  o'er  the  track; 
Drops  in  each  pocket  that  the  field  may  show, 
Or  finds  the  going  where  the  track  is  slow. 
Right  to  the  wire,  before  the  judges'  eyes, 
To  lose  the  race,  with  cunning  skill  he  tries, 
And  when  his  mount  has  finished  in  the  "ruck" 
They  curse  him  roundly  for  their  evil  luck. 

There  is  a  Ring  around  the  track,  ye  fools, 
And  jockeys  often  are  its  blameless  tools. 
They  get  their  orders  from  their  masters,  who 
Are  there  to  swindle  all  such  dupes  as  you. 
Some  crooked  race  is  made  up  every  day, 
And  woe  to  riders  that  do  not  obey; 
For  when  a  race  is  run  that  weirdly  looks, 
Nine  times  in  ten  it's  paid  for  by  the  crooks. 
'Tis  true,  at  times,  when  jockeys  are  in  need, 

12 


THE    RACE    TRACK    SWINDLE. 

Unhid,  they  trifle  with  a  horse's  speed, 

And  if  you  search  their  bootlegs  you  may  find 

The  checks  they  got  to  keep  the  mount  behind. 

Around  the  stables  there  are  owners,  too, 
Whose  winning  horses  are  extremely  few. 
They  need  the  money  to  procure  the  hay, 
To  buy  the  oats,  and  stable  help  t6  pay, 
And  when  they  get  one  which  a  winner  looks, 
It  sometimes  pays  to  interview  the  crooks. 
They'll  find  a  way  before  the  race  is  run 
To  see  the  suckers  most  supremely  done. 

When  owners  bet,  they're  followed  by  the  eyes 
Of  many  watchers  who  believe  them  wise. 
Some  of  these  owners  have  a  heart  as  black 
As  any  scoundrel  that  infests  the  track, 
And  'tis  such  scalawags  the  thieves  employ 
To  make  fake  wagers  and  the  dupes  decoy. 
We  often  see  them  touting  round  the  ring 
That  certain  entries  will  the  money  bring, 
When  they  well  know  the  runner  isn't  "meant," 
And  for  a  workout  with  the  field  is  sent. 
His  touting  done,  the  crafty  steerer  gets 

13 


THE   RACE   TRACK   SWINDLE. 

Up  to  the  books  and  bogus  markers  bets, 
While  trailing  suckers  all  his  betting  see 
And  so  conclude  it  must  a  "sleeper"  be. 
He  owns  a  stable  and  must  something  know 
Or  else  he  would  not  all  his  money  throw. 
They  also  play  it,  then  proceed  to  tell 
Their  cronies  how  this  owner  backed  it  well. 
The  story  flies,  and  many  follow  suit 
With  stacks  of  money  on  the  speedless  brute; 
And  when  too  late,  the  luckless  dupes,  dismayed, 
Perceive  the  trick  the  sordid  villain  played, 
They  ask  themselves  how  much  the  steerer  slick 
Was  paid  to  fool  them  by  the  craven  trick? 
Such  odious  work  they're  doing  every  day, 
To  make  the  dollars  come  the  ringsters*  way, 
While  hapless  victims  see  the  money  flit, 
But  lack  the  sense  or  self-control  to  quit. 

Some  bookies  also  speedy  runners  keep, 
Whose  form  reversals  make  the  talent  weep. 
They  own  the  jockeys,  and  whatever  they  say, 
To  win  or  lose,  the  rider  must  obey. 
The  fool  who  tackles  such  a  game  as  that 
Deserves  to  see  his  wallet  getting  flat. 


THE   RACE   TRACK   SWINDLE. 

It  does  not  need  a  buzzard's  scent  to  trace 
The  fetid  odor  of  the  putrid  race. 
Yet  the  officials  must  complacent  look, 
And  seldom  punish  the  offending  book. 

Another  dodge,  as  many  a  one  can  tell, 

The  ring  has  often  worked  to  fleece  them  well 

When  there  was  danger  that  themselves  be  flayed 

By  wins  of  horses  that  were  strongly  played. 

A  steed  has  won,  the  lucky  fellows  dash 

Behind  the  stands,  the  winning  checks  to  cash, 

When,  hark!  they  hear,  and  with  chagrin  they  scowl; 

Some  losing  owner  has  proclaimed  a  foul. 

Then  comes  a  period  of  extreme  suspense. 

The  judge  deliberates  with  thoughts  intense, 

The  jockeys  tell  their  stories  in  the  stand, 

Hushed  is  the  crowd,  and  silent  is  the  band; 

While  women  bordering  on  hysteria  wait 

To  see  the  numbers  that  will  tell  their  fate. 

And  when  the  judge  with  solemn  face  and  frown 

Allows  the  foul,  and  sets  the  rider  down, 

Though  loud  the  roar  the  partial  judge  may  hear, 

He  lends  a  cold,  unsympathetic  ear; 

For  in  his  heart,  above  that  raucous  din, 

He  hears  a  voice  that  says  the  books  must  win. 

15 


THE    RACE    TRACK    SWINDLE. 

If  racetrack  dupes  with  reason  would  reflect, 

They'd  own,  such  shady  work  they  must  expect; 

The  gambling  feature  is  the  tempting  bait 

That  draws  the  dollars  to  the  turnstile  gate, 

And  if  the  tracks  did  no  protection  give, 

The  books  would  quit  them,  for  they  could  not  live. 

How  many  times  a  multitude  of  eyes 
Have  watched  the  runners  straining  for  the  prize, 
When  up  the  dusty  stretch  they  nimbly  skip, 
Urged  by  the  jockeys  with  the  spur  and  whip. 
Come  on,  my  steed!  each  anxious  player  cries, 
With  roar  that  echoes  to  the  bending  skies; 
They  snap  their  fingers,  or  they  clap  their  hands, 
While  nervous  women  almost  fainting  stand; 
They  yell,  they  swear,  they  tremble  and  perspire 
Until  the  rushing  field  has  passed  the  wire. 
A  race  where  every  horse  the  route  contends, 
And  every  jockey  to  his  duty  bends. 
Close  is  the  finish,  by  a  lengthy  nose 
First  by  the  line,  the  speedy  winner  goes, 
A  favorite  also,  and  the  win  is  plain, 
The  public  see  it  and  they  cheer  again; 
But  when  the  rulers  who  decide  the  race 

16 


THE    RACE    TRACK    SWINDLE. 

Have  put  the  winner  in  the  second  place, 
Though  swindled  hundreds  may  the  crime  deplore, 
And  bitter  yells  of  disapproval  roar, 
They  calmly  tell  the  buncoed  players  that 
They're  cross-eyed,  surely,  or  as  blind  as  bats. 
"Deceptive  angles"  make  them  crooked  see, 
The  horse  ran  as  they  placed  him — there  must  be. 
This  is  the  time  no  starter's  gang  have  sinned, 
And  yet  again  the  players  have  been  skinned. 

JTis  true  they  sometimes  punish  erring  boys 
And  owners  when  their  treachery  annoys, 
When  plugs  perform  an  acrobatic  feat 
And  at  long  prices  better  horses  beat ; 
They  sternly  put  the  stable  on  the  rack 
And  banish  all  connections  from  the  track. 
Look  o'er  the  form  sheets  with  inquiring  eyes, 
This  cogent  fact  you  cannot  then  disguise: 
That  nearly  always  such  poor  devil's  sins 
Were  that  the  books  had  suffered  by  the  wins. 

At  other  times  they  will  a  scapegoat  make 
Of  struggling  jockeys  for  a  slight  mistake, 
Or  for  the  talent  make  a  grandstand  play 
By  bidding  owner  take  his  steeds  away, 

17 


THE   RACE    TRACK   SWINDLE. 

When  some  good  horse,  a  favorite  on  the  slate, 

Is  badly  beaten  by  a  cheaper  skate. 

The  owner  then  arises  to  explain: 

His  horse  was  "troubled  with  rheumatic  pain/' 

Perhaps  was  ailing  with  incipient  mumps 

Or  ran  the  fizzle  when  he  had  the  "thumps"; 

His  "frog  was  injured  by  a  rusty  nail," 

Or  had  "an  abscess  growing  on  his  tail." 

Whatever  the  excuse,  'tis  plausible  of  course, 

The  track  officials  reinstate  the  horse, 

Which  soon  gets  ready,  on  the  dry  or  slop, 

To  skin  the  talent  with  another  flop, 

This  time  the  public  dropped  the  shining  hoard- 

"It  makes  a  difference  whose  ox  is  gored." 

And  still  they  go,  determined  yet  to  take 
Another  rally  at  the  swindling  fake. 
Around  the  track  they  whispered  stories  hear 
Of  "something  doing"  in  the  future  near; 
A  long-priced  sleeper  of  amazing  speed, 
Placed  in  an  easy  race  the  books  to  bleed. 
It's  coming  soon;  impatiently  they  wait 
To  make  a  killing  on  the  promised  skate. 
The  day  arrives,  the  hopeful  suckers  go 

18 


THE   RACE   TRACK   SWINDLE. 

And  bet  the  remnant  of  their  hoarded  "dough." 
The  books  receive  with  unsuspicious  eyes ; 
The  victims  wonder  why  they  don't  get  wise; 
But  when  they  start,  and  off  the  good  thing  goes, 
They  to  their  horror  find  it  has  the  slows, 
Learn  when  too  late,  and  fleeter  nags  have  won, 
The  books  were  wise,  and  they  were  neatly  done. 

Yes,  buncoed  player  with  despondent  heart, 
They're  often  wise  before  the  ponies  start. 
One-half  the  tips  the  hopeful  simples  get 
Are  traps  they  set  to  make  the  greenies  bet. 
Continue  on,  as  others  have  before; 
You'll  drop  your  wealth  and  linger  there  no  more; 
But  they,  through  coming  years  with  ready  hands 
Will  reach  for  dollars  at  the  same  old  stands; 
Still  travel  round  in  style  that's  truly  swell, 
Still  dine  and  slumber  at  the  best  hotel, 
Garbed  in  the  best  the  tailor  can  prepare, 
And  rarest  jewels  on  their  persons  wear. 
Look  down  the  line  with  thoughtful  eyes  and  see 
How  sleek  and  prosperous  they  seem  to  be. 
They  are  not  there  entirely  for  their  health; 
The  players  furnish  all  their  dazzling  wealth. 

19 


THE   RACE   TRACK   SWINDLE. 

Turn  to  the  pikers'  corner  and  survey 

The  different  aspect  of  the  men  that  play. 

They  do  no  feeding  at  a  grand  hotel 

A  beanery  sandwich  fits  their  stomachs  well, 

They're  long  familiar  with  the  doughnuts,  too, 

Have  learned  to  masticate  the  hash-house  stew, 

And  when  they  have  the  money  in  their  jeans, 

Ne'er  turn  their  faces  from  good  wholesome  beans. 

No  glittering  gems  their  nervous  fingers  show, 

Some  hockshop  uncle  got  them  long  ago, 

And  though  their  pants  need  patching  at  the  stern, 

It  seems,  alas,  they'll  ne'er  a  lesson  learn ; 

For  when  they  get  some  money,  off  they  "hike" 

And  buy  a  ticket  to  the  track  and  "pike." 


Think  of  the  many  human  wrecks  you've  seen, 
Who  long  around  the  betting-ring  have  been, 
Yet  curse  the  fatal  day  with  deepest  hate 
That  led  their  footsteps  to  the  race  track  gate. 
With  seedy  clothing,  and  with  pockets  bare, 
They  scan  the  figures  with  a  yearning  stare 
And  beg  some  other  piker  to  "chip  in" 
To  bet  the  steed  their  judgment  picks  to  win. 


20 


THE   RACE   TRACK    SWINDLE. 

Think  well  of  these,  for  they  were  once  like  you, 
Had  pride,  ambition,  and  a  bank-roll,  too; 
Perhaps  were  warned,  as  you  are  warned  today, 
Of  evils  coming  to  the  dupes  that  play; 
Yet  heedless  frolicked  with  the  siren  game 
Till  they  at  last  its  bankrupt  slaves  became. 
Such  is  the  fate  of  all  who  with  it  stay. 
Beware  of  this!  and  quit  it  while  you  may. 

Dupes  sometimes  listen  with  alluring  hope 
To  tales  of  "speed-balls"  and  injected  "dope," 
Of  shameless  owners  with  indifferent  plugs 
Who  fill  them  up  with  stimulating  drugs — 
Things  that  will  make  a  venerable  skate 
Frisk  like  a  two-year-old  before  the  gate. 
'Tis  often  true,  as  many  a  field  can  show, 
When  from  the  paddock  to  the  post  they  go, 
There,  crazy  runners  every  day  are  seen, 
That  rear  and  plunge  with  dispositions  mean; 
Perspiring,  trembling,  sinuous  courses  shape, 
Hard  held  by  jockeys  till  they  reach  the  tape. 
The  drugs  are  working;  if  he  lets  them  go, 
The  frantic  steed  the  field  his  heels  could  show; 
But  no,  the  starter  knows  his  work  too  well; 


21 


THE   RACE    TRACK   SWINDLE. 

The  horse  was  played,  the  figures  plainly  tell. 

He  holds  the  field  until  the  "live  one"  cools, 

Then  turns  them  loose  to  disappoint  the  fools, 

And  when  the  winner  by  the  wire  has  passed, 

The  poor  doped  horse  comes  staggering  home  the  last. 

Thus,  through  the  seasons  they  by  devious  ways 
Abstract  the  shekels  from  the  dupe  that  plays, 
And  thousands  yearly,  to  our  country's  shame, 
Are  led  to  ruin  by  the  wretched  game. 
Some  with  their  noddles  full  of  equine  lore, 
Stay  up  all  night  and  over  form-sheets  pore. 
The  most  sagacious  of  all  dupes  are  they, 
And  wisely  handicap  before  they  play. 
Of  sire  or  dam,  no  knowledge  do  they  lack, 
But  know  each  breed  for  generations  back ; 
Can  point  the  speedy  runners  on  the  dry, 
Or  mudders  which  on  sloppy  tracks  can  fly. 
They  know  the  value  of  each  boy  that  rides, 
And  horses  that  need  stimulants  besides. 
The  mighty  brains  in  their  prolific  pates 
Can  figure  nicely  on  adjusted  weights, 
And  pick  the  runners  that  need  only  breeze 
To  beat  the  others  with  the  utmost  ease. 


22 


UNK 

O" 

. 

THE   RACE   TRACK   SWINDLE. 

Yet  strange  it  is,  with  all  their  skill  displayed 

Their  trousers  legs  are  often  badly  frayed ; 

Their  hats  are  also  ragged  at  the  rim, 

Their  diet  simple,  and  their  purses  slim, 

And  though  they  sometimes  winning  wagers  place 

Upon  their  own  selections  in  a  race, 

They  find  like  others  when  the  season's  done, 

They've  had  the  study,  and  the  books  the  fun. 

Some  study  "systems"  which  on  paper  show 

The  books  beyond  a  doubt  will  bankrupt  go, 

But  when  they  play  it,  though  their  brains  they  rack, 

They  find  it  breaks  them  when  they  hit  the  track. 

No  man  that  ever  lived,  however  wise, 

To  beat  the  game,  a  system  could  devise, 

And  though  deluded  thousands  play  them  still, 

They  never  beat  it  and  they  never  will. 

Some  follow  tipsters  who  with  wisdom  great 
Proclaim  a  corner  on  some  coming  skate, 
And  charge  five  dollars  for  the  "info,"  which 
Was  never  known  to  make  the  buyer  rich. 
If  all  the  public  tipsters  selling  "dope" 
To  lure  beginners  with  deceptive  hope, 

23 


THE   RACE    TRACK   SWINDLE. 

Possessed  one-half  the  knowledge  which  they  say, 
They'd  all  make  fortunes  in  a  single  day. 
Think  well,  'ere  counsel  from  such  touts  you  take, 
And  shun  their  guidance  as  you  would  a  snake. 

Repining  sad  in  many  a  prison  cell 
Are  trusted  clerks  who  at  the  racetrack  fell, 
While  fathers  mourn  o'er  wayward  offspring's  shame 
And  curse  the  keepers  of  the  sinful  game. 
And  many  a  tear  a  mother's  eyes  have  shed 
While  tossing  restless  on  her  sleepless  bed, 
O'er  the  confinement  of  her  prison  boy 
Whose  honored  name  the  gambling  did  destroy. 
Despairing  wives  have  seen  their  husbands  go 
And  day  by  day  their  needed  savings  throw, 
Lured  by  the  reckless  mania  of  the  track 
To  game  with  money  that  will  ne'er  come  back. 
Led  by  illusive  hope  some  struggle  on 
Till  every  dollar  they  possess  is  gone, 
Then  sadly  ponder  o'er  the  wealth  they  gave 
And  bury  sorrow  in  a  suicide's  grave. 
Our  public  guardians  can  dark  stories  tell 
Of  poolroom  evils  which  they  strive  to  quell; 
Of  frequent  crimes,  and  murder's  record  black 
That  follow  yearly  with  the  opened  track. 
24 


THE   RACE   TRACK    SWINDLE. 

Pause,  reckless  player,  for  a  moment,  think, 
Let  Reason  guide  you  ere  you  reach  the  brink. 
Think  of  the  mighty  sum,  the  princely  sack 
It  takes  to  build  and  furnish  every  track; 
Think  of  the  millions  they  must  yearly  pay 
To  run  the  odious  swindle  every  day; 
Whichever  way  the  wandering  thought  may  run 
This  truth  must  strike  you  when  reflection's  done: 
That  all  expenses  which  they  yearly  pay 
Come  from  the  victims  who  go  there  to  play; 
Expenses  only,  they've  no  wish  to  make, 
The  tracks  each  day  must  goodly  profits  take, 
For  years  they've  done  it  and  are  taking  still 
They're  getting  rich,  the  talent  pays  the  bill. 

Think,  in  each  race,  whate'er  the  field  may  be, 

A  single  winner  can  the  public  see. 

They  put  ten  horses  on  the  programme,  then 

'Tis  plain  the  player  has  one  chance  in  ten, 

And  if  twelve  ponies  to  the  starters  go 

One  chance  in  twelve  is  what  the  figures  show. 

A  thoughtful  man  perceives  how  small  a  chance 

Can  here  be  found  his  fortune  to  enhance; 

This,  when  a  race  is  on  its  merit  run 

25 


THE   RACE   TRACK    SWINDLE. 

Nor  crooked  start,  nor  shady  work  is  done. 
The  shady  work  no  honest  man  can  doubt 
Who  often  sees  the  scandals  cropping  out. 
'Twould  be  unwise  to  let  the  public  know 
Of  all  the  wickedness  they  keep  below, 
Yet  when  so  much  is  to  the  surface  pressed 
What  is  kept  covered  can  be  only  guessed. 

Indignant  touts  may  say  it  isn't  right 
To  place  "The  Sport  of  Kings"  in  such  a  light, 
Or  point  the  racetrack  as  a  gambling  den 
Controlled  by  secret  rings  and  vicious  men. 
The  starter's  gang,  such  steerers  ever  cry 
Are  pure  as  angels  in  the  azure  sky. 
They  say  that  innocence  and  holy  grace 
Are  plainly  written  on  each  judge's  face ; 
Declare  the  bookies  paths  of  glory  tread, 
And  place  a  halo  round  each  pious  head; 
Make  spotless  cherubs  of  the  boys  that  ride 
Whom  saints  or  sinners  may  observe  with  pride, 
And  all  the  help,  from  stables  to  the  stands, 
As  sanctimonious  as  celestial  bands. 
'Tis  wrong,  they  say,  against  them  to  declaim — 
"It  does  no  good  and  only  hurts  the  game." 

26 


THE   RACE   TRACK   SWINDLE. 

Thus  cry  the  touts  who  coffee-money  get 

By  steering  trusting  suckers  on  to  bet, 

A  shameless  lot  of  mercenary  knaves 

Who'd  sell  the  headstones  on  their  fathers'  graves. 

To  these  and  others,  I  can  but  reply: 
I've  heard  such  gabble  in  the  days  gone  by, 
Have  had  experience  for  many  years 
And  write  the  game  as  it  to  me  appears. 
How  true  my  words,  let  honest  men  declare 
Who  may  unwisely  to  the  track  repair, 
Or  read  the  columns  of  the  press,  and  see 
How  published  scandals  and  my  song  agree. 
I've  only  written  in  a  general  way 
Of  things  that  happen  at  the  tracks  each  day, 
And  make  no  target  of  a  single  name 
To  bring  dishonor,  or  to  brand  with  shame. 
If  any  upright  man  amongst  them  be, 
The  sting  was  never  meant  for  such  as  he  ; 
But  all  the  others  who  are  justly  hit 
May  wear  the  cap  if  they  believe  'twill  fit. 

Some  starters  whose  conniving  work  I've  seen 
Have  long  been  sleeping  in  the  churchyard  green ; 

27 


THE   RACE   TRACK    SWINDLE. 

Some  judges,  too,  the  silent  sod  have  pressed 
And  books  and  jockeys  have  been  laid  to  rest; 
And  yet  the  dubious  swindle  grows  apace 
With  all  its  evil  and  its  black  disgrace; 
Still  shall  it  go  perchance  through  rolling  years, 
While  ruined  victims  shed  repentant  tears. 
As  time  goes  on  'tis  ever  growing  worse 
And  is  indeed  our  country's  greatest  curse. 

'Tis  one  sad  history  of  blighted  lives, 
Of  wailing  mothers  and  despondent  wives; 
Of  mortgaged  houses,  and  of  lost  estates 
And  convicts  walking  to  the  prison  gates; 
Of  fallen  thousands  who  can  sadly  tell 
How  racetracks  led  them  to  the  path  of  hell; 
A  school  of  crime,  a  nursery  of  distress, 
Which  every  nation  will  in  time  suppress, 
And  moral  people  of  our  country  say 
Is  now  the  greatest  evil  of  the  day. 

Stop!  struggling  victim  of  the  hopeless  game 
Before  you're  broke,  and  have  yourself  to  blame. 
There  is  no  swindle  e'er  devised  by  man 
To  skin  the  sucker  with  a  secret  plan; 

28 


THE   RACE    TRACK    SWINDLE. 

No  brace-game  fixed  by  scoundrels  to  ensnare 
And  do  the  "easy"  with  fastidious  care, 
That  gives  less  chance  to  hopeful  dupes  that  play 
Than  bucking  odds  the  racetrack  swindlers  lay. 

The  fish  that  nibbles  at  the  angler's  bait 

Repents  its  folly  when  it  is  too  late; 

The  moth  that  flutters  round  the  candle's  fire 

Will  meet  its  fate  and  in  the  flame  expire, 

And  he  who  wanders  to  the  track  and  bets 

Will  surely  find  a  time  for  vain  regrets. 

No  man  that  follows  it  can  save  a  cent, 

It  kills  ambition  and  destroys  content, 

And  if  a  run  of  losses  you  have  had, 

Don't  go  and  throw  good  money  after  bad; 

Just  cut  it  out,  and  to  your  work  return, 

And  you'll  enjoy  the  dollars  that  you  earn ; 

Will  see  your  savings  in  the  bank  increase 

With  days  of  pleasure  and  with  nights  of  peace, 

Soon  will  forget  how  badly  you  were  hit — 

THE  ONLY  WAY  TO  BEAT  IT  IS  TO  QUIT. 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


YB   I  1 985 


vJ 


166405 


